Our Story
You send me off into the night
with the deepest kiss and the idea
that this life is not mine. Tiny
fairies light up the dark
as I push away from your shore
and think who am I to claim ownership
of this rickety craft, this barely
floating vessel: your not returning
my things or throwing them by
the wayside meant we would meet
again, of course we would, and join
souls in yet another thunderous night
of joy and utter delight. You said
life is too short. And how could
I not agree despite plenty else
we fought over, insisting the other
was the jerk and so why even bother
trying. But it’s a recurring dream:
limb latching on to coiling limb
as we become this sturdy mast
over hurling waves. I am always
prepared to forsake everything,
even the house where I supposedly
live. I’ll take off my mask and breathe
in all the viruses of the universe,
not to mention those hidden virtues
from my other life, and I’ll dive
into that political morass they call
truth, or away from it, into a lucent
skin called being: a sweetness
of pastures and steppes and all
the wildflowers of the heart. When
I was a boy I knew you were real
and when I die I would want to go
the same way, drifting off down
stream and watching those fireflies
splinter the brooding summer
interlude like a million ticklish
pinpricks of heaven.
Francis Fernandes grew up in the US and Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in Mathematics. He has published in The Zodiac Review, What Rough Beast, Third Wednesday, Poetry Potion, Montréal Writes, Underwood, Bywords. He lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he writes and teaches.
